Scout’s POV
"Get out of my way before I give you a reason to bleed," I growled, shoving through the heavy oak doors of the pack infirmary.
The hinges groaned. The sound sheared through the suffocating silence of the corridor behind me. I did not wait for the two medic omegas near the wall to finish their startled gasps. My boots clicked against the sterile tile, each step cutting straight toward the centre of the room.
The air tasted like rubbing alcohol and copper. Beneath the bright, buzzing fluorescent lights, the mechanical hiss of a ventilator punched a rhythmic, artificial breath into the quiet.
Hiss. Click. Release.
Nixon sat in a low plastic chair beside his mother’s bed. His massive shoulders slouched forward, hunched into a tight, defensive curve. His elbows rested heavy on
